


These Days, I'm Fine. (These Days, I Tend To Lie.)

by ivanattempts



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: I don't know what happened., Infectious diseases., Miscarriage, Quarantining in progress., This was supposed to be a short drabble., Warning for lots of headcanons I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A highly infectious disease makes its rounds on the Enterprise, forcing McCoy to quarantine all infected parties in the Medical Bay - himself and Spock included. As the symptoms progress, and McCoy winds up comatose with no cure yet prepared, Spock must try and rouse him in hopes of finding one, and winds up learning more about the other than he previously anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days, I'm Fine. (These Days, I Tend To Lie.)

He should have seen the signs.

McCoy would berate himself, linger on that thought whenever he was conscious enough to do so, to think of much at all. He was a doctor, one of the best - so why had he failed to recognize what was happening, early on? The spiking fevers, the sudden influx of patients; in such cramped quarters, though, it hadn't been hard to believe that the infection was hopping from person to person. Initially, the first patients had seemed to be recovering fine, thus why he hadn't...

_Excuses_.

Looking around now, it was easy to see he'd made a mistake, a grave error, and people were paying for it. Wracking coughs and writhing figures on biobeds, or wherever else there was room. Medbay had been sealed off, quarantined, days ago, and as far as he could tell, it was working. According to Jim, there had been no fresh outbreaks amongst the remainder of the crew.

Ahh, Jim. Only good fortune that he'd escaped the mess, dumb luck - but that was often how he got by, wasn't it? McCoy didn't mind. He was happy to see him on the other side of the glass, healthy and whole. That was the important part, right? Never mind how sad he looked. McCoy would joke with him, when he felt up to it, mention that he was looking like a kicked puppy again.

Except this time, McCoy couldn't bring him with him.

When his words were cut off by a coughing fit of his own, a cool hand - cool? But he'd always felt so oddly warm... - eased him back from the glass, and the worried eyes of Jim. Spock stood straight, as composed as always, but this was wearing on him, it had to be.

By some cosmic kindness, or unimaginable cruelty, Spock seemed immune to the effects of the infection - no coughs, no fever, no pain, none of the symptoms that were plaguing him and the rest of the crewmembers locked inside of the medical ward. That, however, did not make him exempt from some of the backlash - the sobbing, the frightened wailing, the ceaseless cries of people in agony that McCoy could only partially relieve. Supplies wouldn't last forever, after all, so he could only in good conscience help the people further along the progression, in the worst throes of it. Chapel had pulled him aside at some point, and they'd discussed it at great length in hushed voices - who they needed to help the most. But it wasn't the pain that killed them - the others would have to cope with it as best they could, until it became unbearable.

Spock spoke calmly to the Captain, and when his coughing subsided, he moved forward to reassure Jim that he was fine, to assure him that he wasn't infected - the cough was not accompanied by any of the other symptoms, and there would have been precursors to it if he was infected. Jim seemed skeptical, but had no choice but to trust his word on it. Spock did not dispute his claim, which seemed to comfort the man, and eventually, he moved away from the glass; he did, after all, still have a ship to run, with a now overworked, decimated crew, frightened, in need of leadership.

The hand returned to his shoulder, and McCoy glanced up at Spock, who was looking to surgical mask on his face that helped to hide the feverish warmth of his skin, flushing it.

"You are lying to him. You have long since been infected, Doctor."

"You want to tell him that?" McCoy's voice was tired, frustrated. Last thing he needed right now was a lesson on morality from a Vulcan.

"...you have not been sleeping." The other's unwillingness to argue with him disquieted him, made him feel somehow even more sick than he knew he was - as if Spock knew, and was trying to somehow sympathize with him, in his own way. Make things easier, more pleasant.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead." Even he winced at the callous comment, glancing around and grimacing behind his mask and muttering a quiet, "...sorry."

Spock seemed unruffled, though there was a twitch of his lips that McCoy would deem 'distaste'.

"That outcome will certainly occur, and more quickly, if you do not tend to your own needs."

"Everyone is sick, Spock. Lots of people here _can't_  tend to their own needs. Someone's got to..."

"And they will be taken care of as best they can be, but you are the leading medical officer, Doctor, and if you die before they do, what hope will they have?"

"Hope, Spock? What do you know about that?"

"Hope is a sentiment most sentient beings are familiar with, Doctor. Though I choose not to express it, do not mistake that as a lack of understanding for what it is. You are showing an extreme lack of it, and it is disheartening to your patients."

If he was reading him right - and honestly, he rarely ever did - Spock seemed almost impatient with him, and that thought had him cracking a smile for the first time in days.

Still, they were men of science, and practicality had to come into play somewhere. Odd that he should be the rational one between the two of them, but that was what it seemed like at the moment.

"The infection has had a one-hundred percent fatality rate thus far, Spock. Fevers, followed by coughing and mild aches, leading into pain and hallucinations, unpredictable and volatile swings in emotions, dangerous behavior, and the rapid deterioration of brain function from that point forward, leading to a comatose state, followed by death. I've run every test I can think of, tried every combination, I've been sticking people like they're pincushions. Look like a meth addict myself for all the track marks in my arms."

Rubbing a hand over his face, he missed the shadow that crossed Spock's features, before he was composed once more.

"You have not conducted tests on me, Doctor."

"You're not infected, Spock. We've determined you're immune."

"Can my immunity not be used to develop a cure?"

"I don't know if it would work. Your blood's different from ours, and for once..." He laughed, running a gloved hand through his hair - contamination hardly mattered at this point, after all, because everyone was infected. "...for once, I'm damn happy about that."

The response he received was a quirked eyebrow, a slight, restrained gesture.

"You would just give up, then, without making an attempt? Leave these people to suffer, and die, rather than explore every possible solution?"

"Of course not - but making a serum from your blood...even only being half-Vulcan, it could take me weeks to come up with anything useful, if I kept at it steadily, and most of these people don't have weeks. I'm not sure _I_  have weeks."

The words fell between them, heavy, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Spock was the one to break the silence, parting his lips and looking him over in a calculating manner.

"I have always had great faith in your abilities to overcome impossible odds, Doctor; your apparent capabilities in such endeavors rival even the Captain's running total of near misses."

Somehow, the words felt too intimate, and McCoy couldn't quite look at him, opting instead to run his eyes across the people amassed in medbay, comforting each other, or coping as best they could. All sick, all under his care.

"...I'll try. I'll work on it, okay?" There was an unspoken continuation, though, the words catching in his throat: _...until I can't anymore._  Because the fevers were getting worse, the coughs were becoming more frequent. There was a tell-tale ache in his joints that worried him - and he couldn't be sure if the shadows he saw were because of the sickness, or the lack of sleep.

Either way, he couldn't keep this up forever.

\---

"Doctor."

The word did not rouse him, did not cause him to stir.

"Doctor McCoy."

A slight twitch, but no response otherwise - it was a shame to wake him. It was the first time he'd slept without screaming in two days, but there was no rest for the weary. There was no rest for anyone.

" _Leonard_. You must wake."

The calm voice continued, accompanied by a light touch, and it was perhaps only the immediate recognition of the former that kept McCoy from swinging on the First Officer when he came to, sweating and panicked, a nightmare lingering in his vision. He tried to speak, but only croaked quietly, and Spock hesitated, before silently bringing him a paper cup filled with water. McCoy took it and downed it in one go, wiping his face with the back of his arm, to little avail. Unfortunately, clean linens were in short supply, so he tried to shake off the feeling of grime; he'd shower later, if there was time, and energy, to do so.

"Anything?" His voice wasn't hopeful - just tired, so tired, and Spock reveled in the fact that the good doctor was even capable of keeping himself upright in such a state of exhaustion. The lack of rest seemed to be causing the illness to progress more quickly, and he could see the way McCoy looked over his shoulder, as if something were poised behind him. He knew there was no such threat looming, of course, and so he simply watched the doctor carefully, trying to gauge the severity of his hallucinations. Whatever McCoy saw, though, he seemed lucid enough, still, to be able to separate it from reality, and at length, his gaze returned to Spock.

"Not as of yet."

"But you woke me?"

"You are the only medical officer not yet completely bedridden. I am, regrettably, not as skilled in this field as you are, or I would not have done so."

A twitch of lips, a shadow of his former, easy grins. The echo of it made something in Spock uncomfortable, because it stretched the skin on his face, too pale in the places it was not angrily flushed from the fever. Clammy at the hands, hot-headed, damp. _Sickly._

_Dying._

"Never thought I'd hear you admit I was better than you at anything, Spock."

"Better is the incorrect word, Doctor. I was simply stating the undeniable fact that I am quite regrettably not in possession of the necessary knowledge, which you have studied in extensively, to operate effectively in this particular field."

The denial brought a quiet, raspy chuckle from the doctor, who stretched, groaning a bit; he had opted for a small corner of the floor, leaving the available beds for others, though he probably would have benefited from one, himself. "Alright, alright. You made your point. Let's get to..."

The sentence trailed off as he stood, swaying on his feet and stumbling. Spock moved instinctively forward, helping him to remain standing - easier said, than done, considering the man seemed to be mostly dead weight. How he had even gotten to his feet, Spock was unsure, but he remained still, let McCoy regain himself as best he could before making a second attempt.

Neither of them mentioned the momentary weakness; McCoy drew himself up, and walked with sure steps, but his body was failing him, and when he took more samples to work with, Spock watched the green of his blood slosh inside the vials as those 'legendary' hands… _shook_.

\---

Rousing McCoy was becoming increasingly difficult, and it caused in Spock bouts of a quiet anxiety he refused to acknowledge he felt. If the doctor progressed into the comatose stage of the illness, he would be left to his own devices in the finding of a cure - and while he was far from incompetent, McCoy was the medical expert. Without him, Spock ran the risk of missing something vital.

On top of the medical officer's worrisome state, Jim was coming nearly every day. For a while, Spock had been able to placate him, reporting to him that McCoy was busy assisting patients. Sleeping, after all, was a necessary evil in that the doctor had to rest to be fit, capable of helping patients. It was dishonest, though, and while that did not stop him from offering the Captain a skewed view of the truth, he did feel guilty for the slight misdirections. The assurances did not continue long, though - it was inevitable that he would have to reveal the other's condition at some point, and their Captain was a persistent man.

Upon hearing the full truth, Jim had become distraught, demanding to be allowed inside to see the other - McCoy, though, had perhaps anticipated just such problems, and at the start of it all had rather wisely insisted upon locking everything down, utilizing both his and Spock's codes, sending Medical Bay into full swing of emergency quarantine procedure. No one came, no one left, not without both of them present to allow it, and that included the Captain.

Only recently had Spock been entrusted with the secondary code needed; the knowledge of it, those numbers only McCoy had been in possession of, troubled him in its implications: that McCoy did not have faith in the fact that he would be present to assist him in the opening of the doors when this all had run its course.

That was a small detail that he had left out of his report to Jim.

\---

The search for the cure was tiresome, and frustrating in its current lack of results; time was not a luxury they had, a fact Spock became all too acutely aware of the day McCoy did not wake.

Speaking to him had brought no reaction, nor had light touches. Shaking him had roused from him only a slight twitch of his facial muscles, something unpleasant. Spraying him with water had elicited a similar reaction, but McCoy did not stir.

Desperation was an emotion Spock would not admit to ever having felt, but if he had, he would imagine it felt something like this, the frightening uncertainty of the situation, the touch-and-go feeling that he had no logic to combat. The terrifying fact of the entire problem was that he might not be able to figure it out in time - there was no guarantee of success at all, much less of a chance to develop it in time to save the patients, and the chances of saving the man lying prone on the cold, sterile floor in front of him...Statistics had often been a coping method of dealing with impossible odds, long-shots and slim chances that had had some basis on factual evidence, but this was up in the air, out of his hands, and all he could do was...hope.

"Doctor McCoy." No response, and that was no surprise. He'd been trying for twenty minutes to wake him, losing precious time. "Doctor McCoy. Leonard." Nothing, not so much as a change in breathing patterns to indicate some kind of awareness. But he had to be in there - trapped in his own mind by the illness ravaging his body. He had to still be present, just lost.

Then, Spock would go in search of him.

" _My mind to your mind…_ " Whispered, hushed between them as his hand moved to slide into place over the meld points, eyes closing slowly. " _My thoughts to your thoughts_."

And if Spock had ever thought of the Doctor as a simple man, if he had ever undermined the sheer volatility of his emotions, the pureness of his soul, if he had ever discredited the man in his indifference to his own well-being in favor of helping others, the life-threatening compassion on which he had built his career, around which he had shaped his life, and suffered for, if ever Spock had thought poorly of the man that was Leonard McCoy...in the moment their minds met, he rescinded every bit of it.

\---

Summers in the south were hot as hell, dazzlingly bright; the sort of heat that clung to your skin, could cause you to lose your breath just by stepping outside. Sunscreen was damn near mandatory, and a bottle of water should be kept within easy reach. They were unspoken rules that he'd never thought too much about, growing up there as he had - it was worse in the city, sun-baked roads radiating heat in waves visible to the naked eye, distorting anything more than an arm's length away.

Spock was a bystander, watching as if the memory was a ticker-tape, chopped up, jumping where the inevitable inconsistencies that came with age occurred. Narration came in the form of feelings that were not his own, a warm nostalgia for a place that Spock had never seen, but acknowledged with a sense of belonging that had to indicate that this was Leonard's home. _Home_. His thought echoed, and the word was returned to him with a vague confirmation, dreamy - yes, this was his home, the word was associated with and tied to this place, written in the cracks of the sidewalks and the smell of the rain, and the feel of warm earth between his toes when he'd run with a friend through their parents' field as a child, hiding between stalks of corn and stifling laughter.

The images were blurred, as if seen from a great distance, but some details were sharper than others. The sun beating down on him, for instance, warming his skin in a pleasant way that reminded him of his own home, a thing he would never experience again; though, the similarity in feeling was a comfort, and he did not, at the moment, mourn for the loss, but instead reveled in the discovery of such a close match. No one in the memories acknowledged him, did not spare him a second glance - except for a single blue-eyed boy who paused once in his movements in front of a mirror, offering up a gap-toothed grin that had Spock, inexplicably, smiling back, before the boy scampered off. It dawned on him, a bit belatedly, that the boy in the mirror had been McCoy, seeing himself from his own perspective - the only shape his memories could possibly take.

With that in mind, Spock decided to follow the memories in chronological order. He had little choice, after all - simply calling for the man was offering no results, which meant he must be somewhere deeper than Spock had yet ventured. He would start at the beginning, and find his way to the other, and drag him back if he must - this entire affair must have an ending, he knew, and this, this was not going to be it, not if there was any chance for an alternative.

The memories progressed, and Spock, with infinite patience, took them in as they came.

\---

They'd had a proper family, once. His father was a mean man; fond of a branch of tough love that was more of the former than the latter, and fonder of his drinks than his kids. Ruled the house with a leather strap and the back of his hand, scared his Momma and his sister, and bloodied his brother's lip the one time he'd stood between him and them.

Leonard was one of three children, one older brother, one little sister. His Momma was a kindly woman with a smile sweet enough to rival the tea she made, and the good sense to hide her bruises and tear-stained face, but not enough of it to leave the man until she found bruises on her two boys, who'd quietly looked down when questioned.

It had felt like his fault, at the time - the way his father raged and swore, the way he'd tried to snatch everything out of the suitcase that his mother had quietly, diligently continued trying to fill. The three of them had stood, huddled together, just beyond the doorway of the room, hiding in the darkness so they wouldn't be discovered watching. He and his brother had covered their sister's eyes and ears, and she'd squirmed, but clung to them, frightened of the muffled shouts she could hear despite their efforts.

The memory was shocking in its intensity, realistic to a fault, and so, when the man they collectively watched pulled a gun, and the eldest boy swore and ran forward, Spock moved as if to stop him, even knowing, logically, that the events he was watching were in the past, impossible to influence now.

It went off, and for a long moment, they all froze, and if Spock had not been studying the scene himself, he would assume that something had disrupted the memory, that some part of it had been lost - but he was experiencing it as Leonard had experienced it, and everything seemed to slow as his brother's head lolled, the first thing that snapped his eyes from his mother, whom he had expected to be the injured party, to the gun pointed at the doorway, and his older sibling. The boy was silhouetted as he turned, expression confused, more shocked than pained, and his hand was at his side, something dark and wet staining his clothing and fingers.

Vaguely, Spock knew the woman he had long since pinpointed as Leonard's mother was screaming, and his father was leaving, now the damage was done. The woman was sobbing into a phone as the door slammed closed, but the sounds were muted; his older brother had crumpled to the floor, and his breathing was so shallow that even Spock's sharp eyes could hardly detect it. Leonard was wide-eyed, watching his mother sobbing over the boy, pressing her hands desperately to the wound in an attempt to slow the steady seeping of blood onto the floor.

For a moment, there was only darkness, and the sound of the woman crying, as the boy that would one day become a doctor of nearly unmatched medical skill closed his eyes and turned his head, terrified, helpless. His eyes opened, and the memory began again, with him picking up the younger girl and carefully pressing her face into his shoulder to keep her from seeing what had occurred - he'd left the room with her. Help was on the way for his brother - all he could do was stay out of the way, and keep his little sister calm, even if he wasn't calm himself.

That was a trait Spock recognized from the man the boy would one day become, and it was downright...well, _fascinating_  to see the early manifestations of it.

\---

The days following that event all blurred together, into months, into years - Spock vaguely gathered that the brother had lived, but had exited their lives not long after that of his own volition, being of age, and of a mind to. To pursue a career in music which had, apparently rather inevitably, fallen flat, and he'd lost contact at some point after a brief prison stay. His mother had raised them alone from there on out, juggling school with an internship at a hospital to become a nurse, and a full-time job to support them. He'd done what he could when he'd gotten old enough, but his mother had insisted on him going to school, so he had, and he'd worked damn hard to do so - paid for every bit of it as he went, or didn't go until he had the money to, and between scholarships and elbow grease, he'd gotten through college with a degree and not a cent of debt.

Through the entirety of that, though, there was a name that cropped up again and again: _Jocelyn_.

He had been...reluctant to follow that train of thought due to the obvious personal significance the woman had held in McCoy's life, whoever she was; Spock did not recall ever having heard the name before, though he did vaguely recall the mention of an ex-wife. No matter how reluctant he was to delve further into their past together, though, it seemed she was inextricable from the next section of events, and so he braced himself, and progressed.

\---

Laughter. It was the first thing that Spock came to associate with the woman named Jocelyn; bright, tinkling laughter that washed over him, breaking like waves on a beach, warm, pleasant. She was quick-witted, and quicker to smile, open and friendly in a way that had bowled McCoy over basically from the moment he'd met her. He'd been in his third year at the university, and she'd been an incoming student; she hadn't been impressed with his progress toward a medical degree, and he'd snarked at her schedule, which had pegged her as a teacher to be, and after an argument about the necessity of both of their roles in society, he'd asked her to dinner, and she'd accepted.

If McCoy had had any significant relationships before Jocelyn, Spock could not pinpoint them in the timeline - the woman's existence seemed to eclipse everything lesser, a sun surrounded by dimmer stars, lost somewhere in her glow.

Of course, since she was no longer in his life, Spock had anticipated that something had gone wrong - he simply wasn't sure of what form the problem would take. The longer he watched, the more he found he...almost dreaded the answer, an emotion he was unaccustomed to experiencing.

Their wedding was a small, but rather lovely affair. Jocelyn's parents were accepting, if wary, of her choice in husband, and were cordial to his own mother; moneyed people, having never wanted for anything, they had offered disdainful greetings to his mother, in her best dress, a simple affair she'd mended many times, but which Spock deemed suitably flattering, quaint in a pleasant manner, if not as fine as that of Jocelyn's mother - and she, in turn, had greeted them with a quiet grace and calm smile that Spock could appreciate. It was held outside, and the weather was lovely, until the ceremony proper had ended. Spock watched avidly, studying the odd customs, the ritual that bound two people to one another - nothing like his own people.

When the reception had begun, the sky had started to darken, and the rain had come rather suddenly - and while Jocelyn's parents had hurried for shelter, along with McCoy's mother, and the majority of their guests, the bride and groom had blinked at each other, bewildered, Jocelyn's dress wet and getting muddied, McCoy's suit clinging to him...And together, together they had laughed, helplessly, endlessly, and what most people would see as a setback, they saw as a blessing, and their first dance was had to sound of Jocelyn's parents shouting, the band starting up belatedly to catch up to them, music filtering through the rain and their continued, mingling laughter.

Spock could not recall ever seeing the doctor, the man he had thought he knew rather well, so happy in all the time he had been in his company.

\---

McCoy's emotions were infectious to Spock in a way that the illness plaguing him had not been; he rode them out as if they were his own, and found himself experiencing an odd high from the sheer overwhelming nature of the happiness coloring this section of McCoy's memories, the untainted near-bliss that had filled him at the time. After the wedding, he'd finished his degree and gotten work at a local hospital, and they'd lived in a haze of hushed affection and warm smiles that rivaled the brilliance of the sun beating down on their home.

And one day, it had all changed - McCoy had come home, still in his scrubs, rubbing at his face, exhausted, and Jocelyn had been waiting for him, doe-eyed, lips parted, and there was something in that look that Spock could not place, but that had McCoy stopping dead in his tracks, tipping his head at her, silently questioning.

"...we're happy you're home."

The words were distinct in his memory, and Spock picked up on the plural pronoun before McCoy did, the realization dawning more slowly on his overworked mind. _We_.

Her hands moved to her stomach, spreading out as if to indicate who else she meant, and in that moment, McCoy hit his knees, and against all of Spock's logic, wept with _joy_.

\---

It was a regular check-up; that much, Spock ascertained immediately, and so he did not recognize the immediate significance of the memory, but it had stood out quite prominently, and he had been unable to ignore it. They had shared an umbrella to the vehicle, he'd walked her to her side, and then gotten in himself - they set off, and the rain beat down. They spoke quietly, Jocelyn murmuring about the rain calming her nerves, fingers once more fanned out over the bump in her stomach, an image that McCoy's memories associated fondly with the name _Joanna_. Their child, a girl, according to the last check-up.

The other vehicle had come out of nowhere, blindsided them; McCoy's memories were blurred, loud, and there should have been sirens on the way to assist, but there were none to be heard - just his own wheezing breaths, the pounding of his heart in his ears. When he'd realized what had happened, he'd pushed himself up despite the glass digging into his palms, and he'd dragged himself toward the wreckage of the cars - the person who'd hit them was lying on the pavement, body twisted at an odd angle, utterly still. The rain blurred his sight, but not so much that he couldn't see the red being washed away, from beneath Jocelyn, who had lost consciousness.

A frantic desperation surged through the connection, the feeling tied to the memory - McCoy was sobbing, reaching for his medical kit, still thankfully intact, and there were rules about this, never working on someone you knew or loved, but there was no choice; those sirens he thought he heard in the distance would never get there fast enough, and he could feel the shudders of her body that meant the shock was trying to send her into premature labor...There were only two options, there were two of them, and no matter what he did, he risked losing one or the other, and if he didn't act at all, he'd likely lose both.

Spock watched with a horrified sort of fascination as McCoy worked, and when the ambulances arrived, he was sitting, quietly, medkit in his lap, head bowed.

\---

Jocelyn's quick smiles were gone, and the loss of them broke something in him. They did not speak unless they had to, and her once-affectionate glances were now accusing. Spock thought it unfair of her, but McCoy took it silently, accepted it, and Spock wanted to tell him he was wrong to do so. It was illogical - he had done what he had to do to ensure the survival of Jocelyn, even at the loss of...He did not dare think the name, felt himself to be bound by the banishment of it in the same manner that the affected couple did, and he never once heard it pass their lips again.

The warmth that McCoy had once found in their playful verbal sparring, he found again at the bottom of a bottle, and while that brand of self-medication never truly got out of hand, he hated himself for it. Weak, like his father, but not quite the monster he had been. Right? Except his father had only attempted to kill a child, and he'd been drunk when he'd done it.

Leonard had been stone sober, and had succeeded.

Their marriage had become a slippery slope, and watching McCoy trip and stumble to the bottom of it, ever fighting to claw his way back to the top, back to what they had been before, pained Spock in a way that had nothing to do with McCoy's feelings on the matter whatsoever.

The day the divorce papers arrived, McCoy had signed them without a word, without an argument, and he left as quietly as his father had loudly - near-silent, expression broken, lost.

The negotiations had honestly gone rather easily; "Give her everything."

Jocelyn's parents had concluded that was exactly what their daughter should have, and their lawyers assured it. If the woman had tried to argue the point, McCoy didn't know. He'd drowned the bitterness in something nearly strong enough to sterilize wounds, and signed the papers without reading them. He didn't know what they said. He didn't care. The one thing he'd wanted to keep, he'd lost long before the papers were issued and lawyers got involved.

\---

Stunned from the rapid downswing the memories had taken, Spock did not dwell too long in the aftermath of it; the events that had taken place there seemed to have driven McCoy from the home he loved to seek out something else, some place without so much hurt tied to it, and with not a dime to his name, well - there was only one way to get that far away, that fast.

The Academy had all too eagerly accepted him in - he was a damn good doctor, and they could always use more of those. McCoy hadn't thought that over well enough, at the time; he was a simple man with simple wants in life, or so he thought. In one of the small hospitals back in Georgia, he'd likely never have seen as many patients die on his table as he saw in a year in space. If Spock had been paying proper attention, he would have noted the slight stirring of another consciousness at that particular memory being turned over, a very slight awareness. He was distracted though, because upon his entry of the Academy-based memories, he found one he had only had vaguely described to him: McCoy's meeting of their mutual friend, James T. Kirk.

It had been a pivotal point in McCoy's life; Jim hadn't taken school all that seriously, but McCoy had kept after him, waking him for classes with crackers and painkillers, and dragging the reluctant man to class like an errant child. And while he'd complained about it, McCoy's mind could hide no secrets from Spock now - the routine of it, the need to take care of Jim and make sure he behaved and didn't wind up in too much trouble, it was good for McCoy. It kept him on the right track, himself, kept him focused on his goal, and seeing Jim wasted made him a little less inclined to pick up the bottle himself. One of them had to be sober, after all, and Jim had been drinking to have fun - it was the better cause, in his mind, so he'd let him have it.

That all made enough sense to satisfy Spock; what he hadn't expected was what came later - his own arrival, also dictated a notable memory of McCoy's.

It felt invasive, self-serving to look into that, but he must wake McCoy by any means necessary - his own...curiosity had nothing to do with it.

\---

Seeing himself through McCoy's eyes was an experience he did not think he could ever grow used to; the memories had an odd sort of clarity to them that Spock had previously associated with either very recent memories, or very important ones, and he could not fathom why seemingly meaningless conversations with him were marked with that same sort of significance. Each twitch of his face seemed to be noted, catalogued in a manner that Spock would almost deem obsessive, if it weren't for the softened edges with which McCoy seemed to view him, especially the further the memories progressed, to more recent ones. There was a tone to the lot of them that echoed hollowly of the same - affectionate? He hesitated to assign that term to it. - general feeling he had gotten from the early conversations McCoy had had with Jocelyn. In their arguments, McCoy was engaged in a way that was much more...downright delighted than his snappish tone had ever previously revealed. Nearly gleeful whenever he could get a rise out of Spock, cause him to raise his voice, or snap back in some slight show of annoyance. Spock would deny it, if asked, but if that was what McCoy wished to believe...

One of the most recent memories consisted of the quarantining, the horror McCoy had felt at having to cut off so many of the crewmembers from the rest, the helplessness he had felt upon realizing he didn't know what to do. The desperation to which he had clung to Spock's calm, something the First Officer had not realized was so important to the doctor. And the moment in which he had discovered Spock was immune - the relief that rushed over him upon viewing that memory was far beyond what his own had been, and that bewildered him.

And the moment McCoy had told him his code, it was different through McCoy's eyes as well - because from this perspective, he could tell there was something else on McCoy's lips, poised on the tip of his tongue, prepared to tumble out, and Spock could not place it, but the words lingering there were not the numbers Spock knew he spouted off next.

"Spock, I - "

_Spock, I -_

The thoughts had echoed the beginning, but the ending was different, and a word was just being formed, when his name came again, instead.

_Spock?_

The questioning tone had his own awareness snapping back to focus, and he could sense it now, the drowsy, tired voice of McCoy.

_Doctor._

_You're...in my head, aren't you?_

_I have initiated a meld, yes._

_Leonard._

_What?_

_You're in me, call me Leonard._

_A lewd way of expressing things, Leonard._

Amusement filtered through, and Spock felt a small amount of relief at that.

_It happened, didn't it? I'm in a coma._

_I do not intend to let you stay in one._

_A man goes into a coma, and you still won't let him rest._

Another wave of amusement, tinged with something like sadness - something like defeat.

_I feel we may reach a breakthrough, if you will only come with me to check my figures._

_Got any facts to back that up?_

_Considering that you are the only person I could logically receive confirmation of my theory from, you know quite well the answer is 'no'._

_I'm tired, Spock._

_You no longer have the luxury of resting._

_On the contrary, I'm resting right now. Or was._

_You do not wish to wake?_

_You're the mindreader. You tell me._

Reluctance - a despairing lack of hope, of confidence in his own abilities. A nearly painful feeling of failure.

_You have only failed if you, as they say, count your chickens before they hatch, and assume none of them will._

_That's not quite how that saying goes, Spock._

_I apologize._

Uncertainty, exhaustion, but some vague willingness.

_What do I have to do to wake up?_

_Focus on me. I will assist you._

_I don't know - oh. How are you doing that?_

_I am simply lessening the effect of your symptoms on your mind, in as much as I can._

_I didn't know you could do that._

_I was not certain I could until now._

_I...think I'm going to wake up. This is weird, being conscious, but not awake._

_I imagine it is rather similar to being in a deep meditative state. It may be disorienting at first._

_Alright. What do I do next?_

_Open your eyes_.

A slight hiss of pain, movement beneath him, was what had Spock surfacing from the meld, tired himself - but the shared exhaustion seemed a small price for the insight he had gotten on the other, and more importantly, to see McCoy's eyes squinting up at him, slivers of blue, expression twisted in annoyance and relief.

The doctor's hand came up to the one now absently cradled against his cheek, cupping it, and he pressed their hands together, keeping it there for a moment, expression clearing just enough for him to look...anxious, and Spock could not place why, but he had a sudden recollection of the warmth of McCoy's thoughts in his memories of the other - like the Georgian summer sun sliding across his skin.

He offered McCoy a very slight smile, and at great length, removed his hand from the other's cheek, from beneath his hand. McCoy grimaced, but was smiling back.

"You just smiled at me. I really must be dying." The chuckle he gave turned into a cough, and Spock laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder, helping to steady him through the pain.

"Come. We have much to do before you sleep again."

"Not for the last time, I hope..." The words were muttered, but Spock heard them, though he did not acknowledge them. Helping McCoy to his feet, they moved carefully into the lab they had been utilizing, and began running tests once more.

\---

"First Officer of the Starship Enterprise, Spock." The computer acknowledged him, prompted his passcode, and he recited it nearly mechanically.

"Chief Medical Officer of the Starship Enterprise, McCoy." The computer again acknowledged, and prompted the passcode, and a second set of numbers was rattled off. After a moment, the screen went green, and the door that had locked them all in there weeks ago, opened.

Jim was waiting for him, staring expectantly up at him, and then at the CMO grinning beside him; the Captain had bags under his eyes, lips twisted in a frown.

"What are you so cheeky about? I was worried sick."

"And I was _actually_  sick. Guess we both have to get over it."

The glib response earned McCoy a glare, but he didn't mind - what mattered was that Jim didn't so much as glance at his and Spock's fingers, two from each, lightly hooked together between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory: None of this belongs to me but the time and effort I put into writing it. Title's from "Amsterdam" - Imagine Dragons, though the original idea cropped up while listening to "Camisado" - P!AtD, specifically:
> 
> "This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor;  
> this is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital.  
> It's not so pleasant, and it's not so conventional -  
> it sure as hell ain't normal, but we deal, we deal."


End file.
